“Hold hands. Stay together,” she urged them, keeping her voice calm as she looked over her shoulder.
Glaring lights from outside swept across the windowpanes, casting an eerie silhouette on the men who held them at gunpoint. And even though she suspected the police had the building surrounded, there were only a few lights on this side of the clinic. Fewer police had staked out the rear. She had no idea what her captors were planning.
If escape wasn’t an option, would they shift gears into a suicide mission? Desperate men resorted to reckless measures. And her gut twisted with a more disturbing thought. From what she’d seen of the Haitian police, all their lives were in danger. And bullets killed no matter who pulled the trigger. Were their captors the lesser of two evils?
In another life, she would have cursed her predicament. Now their survival meant more to her than giving in to her own rage. Every ounce of her energy would be focused on getting the children and the other hostages through this ordeal. And although she found comfort in her objective, she knew these men would test her faith—and her humanity—before this was all over if she survived.
A bolted metal door led to a belowground walkout. From what she’d seen of construction in Port de Paix, a cinder-block wall would give them marginal cover. But once they made it to the top of the outdoor steps, they’d be exposed to gunfire from the police. And she had no doubt their captors would use them as shields.
“Oh, God…please,” she whispered, fearing the answer. She made a quick sign of the cross to stop her body from trembling.
The masked men peered out the windows and kept to the shadows of the storage room. They spoke in hushed voices in a heated debate she didn’t understand. One man pulled another weapon from a pack he carried. She couldn’t make out what it was. Kate could tell they’d assessed the danger, same as she had. And when their leader intervened, she held her breath.
Whatever he decided, it would happen now.
CHAPTER 5
New York City
Sentinels Headquarters
Dressed in suit and tie, Garrett Wheeler arrived in the middle of the night at Sentinels headquarters, not an unusual occurrence in his line of work. He was determined to assess the Haiti situation as soon as possible. Committing resources to an urgent rescue mission of this magnitude would be within his authority to sanction. Yet the political ramifications of deploying a covert team from the United States to handle a hostage rescue in Haiti would require that he keep Sentinels’ group leaders apprised.
His analysts monitored events over the globe twenty-four/seven. And that meant as operational head, he was on call. The influential and wealthy men behind the covert organization owned his ass, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. His involvement had given his life a purpose he never would have imagined. He carried out the Sentinels’ objectives and had become the organization’s only public face so they could operate in anonymity. And he liked to think he had done his share of shaping the group after he emerged from its ranks to take a leadership role.
Only time and his unflinching diligence would determine his contribution in the long run.
After the ocular-and facial-recognition program scanned a blue light across his face, the private elevator opened its doors and took him to his office on a subterranean level located in an unmarked building on the streets of New York City.
A voice greeted him in the elevator on his way down.
“Good morning, Garrett. I’ve sent the files you requested. They’re on your desk.” The Southern drawl of analyst Tanya Spencer came over a speaker, along with her smiling dark-skinned face on a small screen. “And we’ve been monitoring the situation in Haiti. Satellite images for the region are being sent to you now. Anything else, sir?”
“Thanks, Tanya. I’ll let you know.”
When the elevator doors opened again, the lights to his office suite illuminated a large room with minimal furnishings of glass, black leather, and sterling-silver fixtures. A bank of monitors gave him a glimpse of news, weather, and other hot-spot situations across the globe. And teleconferencing equipment allowed him to make secured contact with members of the Sentinels. At the touch of a screen on his desktop, he could bring up any view he wanted.
Before he got to his usual morning briefing rituals, he smelled fresh-brewed coffee. A service had been set up on a console table on the far wall. He poured a cup and replayed in his mind the earlier phone conversation he’d had with Joe LaClaire as he settled behind his desk. The call had been recorded, analyzed, and dispatched to him via a Sentinels’ security screening process that wouldn’t allow anyone else to trace it to his location.
Garrett had met Joe LaClaire on more than one occasion through mutual associates. Yet it wasn’t until he discovered LaClaire was a trusted ally of Jackson Kinkaid that he gave him any serious consideration as a player in international circles. LaClaire was discreet and had a reputation for getting the job done in a low-key way, an attribute Kinkaid would have admired.
Their association made sense. Yet the urgent distress call still surprised him. Why would anyone close to Kinkaid contact him? The situation had to be damned hopeless. And other thoughts occurred to him, driven by his suspicious nature. After all these years, why now? Why would Kinkaid contact him out of the blue? The answer could be as simple as the man didn’t know LaClaire had made the call, but what if Kinkaid couldn’t leave the past alone?
What if he had an appetite for payback?
Something else bothered him, too. He hadn’t been able to uncover any real details about how Kinkaid made a living these days although he hadn’t given up trying to find answers. And for a number of years, the reclusive man had dropped off the grid. Gaps of time in his records had gone unexplained. With an operative, this wasn’t unusual. Garrett was certain that what could be found on paper for the man’s tax filings and other official documents was only a fraction of the story. Kinkaid was rumored to be involved with warring factions of drug cartels in South America, a mercenary working for the highest bidder.
The man had been trained in weapons and combat tactics. He knew how to use force, yet his biggest assets were his intelligence and his preference for subtle mind games and intimidation strategies, something Garrett had always respected and admired. But if Kinkaid was involved with ruthless drug cartels, that meant he had changed for the worse—making him a dangerous man.
“Jackson Kinkaid.” Saying the name aloud spawned dark memories he would have preferred not to think about. He couldn’t afford to indulge in guilt. To do so would make him ineffective at his job.
When it came to Kinkaid, he hated to admit their past was like a festering wound that had never healed.
“And apparently”—he took his first sip of coffee—“that time is now.”
Regardless of the obligation he felt toward Kinkaid, he would not send a team into a rescue operation on foreign soil without doing his research. That was why he had Tanya Spencer indulge his curiosity with an analysis. And for his part, he thought of only one person to lead a covert hostage rescue in Haiti—and his choice was not purely made on qualifications alone.
Garrett knew that at one time Alexa Marlowe had had feelings for Jackson Kinkaid. He had no idea if those feelings were returned. She’d never told him, but it had always made him wonder. If there was still an emotional tie between his beautiful blond operative and Kinkaid, he could use that edge, although he had mixed feelings about doing so.
On a personal level, it pained him to use Alexa in such a way. Yet if it became necessary, manipulating Kinkaid was another matter. He’d use any means that would give him an edge.
Garrett took another sip of coffee. If he played his cards right, he could bury the hatchet and sever the obligation he felt toward Kinkaid, plus turn the tables in the process. He much preferred manipulating a top-notch
